Page 45 of Shrapnel

Jackson stopped listening to him. His attention was drawn to the front door of the bar. A familiar figure stepped over the threshold, wiping his boots on a mat that was filthier than anything he could have tracked in.

Trying to look small, Rhett Herrera stuffed his hands into his pockets and weaved his way through the tables before getting the bartender's attention. They chatted for a moment before the bartender handed him an overstuffed envelope, a grin on her face as she gesticulated wildly.

With his shaggy brown hair falling around his face like a shield, his flannel shirt, and baggy jeans, he stuck out like a sore thumb in this darkened bar. But more than his clothes, it was the way he slunk around. Like he was trying to take up less space.

Rhett seemed uncomfortable with whatever she was saying, his thin smile strained.

“Oi! Stop taking her attention!” Some burly bikers yelled at Rhett.

The young man smiled apologetically and pocketed the envelope, slipping it into his back pocket. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled.

The bikers didn’t seem to like the apology. They stood and closed in on Rhett, pressing their leather-clad bodies up into his space. Jackson watched Rhett with interest. He was taller than any of the bikers, and not a skinny guy. Jackson had seen him toss guys twice his size out of the Sunspot without breaking a sweat. Why he was taking this abuse, Jackson had no idea.

“Fuck you think you are? This is our bar. That bitch ain’t yours to talk to.”

Rhett flinched. “Please don’t call her that.”

The bikers found this amusing. Their leader guffawed, holding his beer belly while his handlebar mustache twitched. “What did you say to me?”

“I asked you to please not call her that.”

He pushed Rhett against the bar, his belly bumping into him as he leaned into Rhett’s face. The longest hairs of his mustache must have tickled his neck.

“I’ll make you my bitch if you talk back to me again. That cu—”

Rhett didn’t let him finish. He grabbed the biker by the back of his head and slammed him into the bar top. Once, twice, he slammed his face into the lacquered wood until blood and teeth dripped down onto the sticky floor. As the biker's legs wobbled and he threatened to pass out, Rhett grabbed him by his mustache and leaned over him.

“Please do not use such disrespectful terms.” His voice was quiet and even. “Would you like me to escort him out?”

The bartender was staring at them wide-eyed. She made a tiny little squeak.

Rhett, still holding the man by his mustache, dragged him out on his knees. Weakly, the biker rasped bloody wet breaths, crawling on his knees to keep his mustache from ripping off his face. Rhett opened the front door and tossed the semi-conscious man out into the parking lot.

From the open door, Jackson watched Rhett stuff what looked like a business card into the man’s pocket. “I apologize for the violence, and I will gladly pay any medical bills you may incur.”

Jackson lost sight of him when the door closed. The entire bar was silent, looking over at the injured man’s friends as they stared slack-jawed at the closed front door.

Chuckling, Jackson shook his head. He kept tabs on Evan, and through him, he knew a little bit about Rhett. The guy’s sister owned the Sunspot and he worked there as a handyman, bartender, and bouncer. Where Rhett and Molly were before the bar, Jackson had no idea. When Evan started working there Jackson asked Grant to do some checking on the Herrera siblings. Nothing stood out and Grant had personally vouched for them, so Jackson left it at that.

But apparently, there was a lot more to Rhett than he realized.

“Anyway, man, there’s this job at the pharmaceutical company I work for. If you’re interested, I can pull some strings and get you in.”

Jackson leveled a glare at Sticky Fingered before reaching into the bowl on the table and picking up a handful of peanuts. He closed his fingers around the nuts, squeezing until the shells popped and cracked in his hand.

“Jim?” the man nodded unsteadily, eyeing the handful of nuts. “You ever speak to me again and I will shove these peanuts so far down your throat your ass will develop a nut allergy.”

Jackson let the crumbled remains of nuts fall from his hands as he left the bar.

Dusk was falling as Owen fidgeted with his phone outside the concert venue. The line of people waiting to get in was already around the block. His sneakers squeaked and a girl in platform boots six inches taller than him raised an eyebrow. He smiled apologetically, stepping farther from the line to wait by the curb.

He wondered if there was some sort of hallucinatory properties to gunpowder. That was the only explanation for inviting an assassin to hang out.

Owen had spent the last 24 hours wondering just what had gotten into him. He never had thoughts of hanging out with Jamie before. He was looking at Jamie, marveling at the straightness of his arms and the ease with which he handled a gun. Barely having to glance before he took the shot, bullseye every time. It had been…well, it had done something to Owen. Beyond the impressive skills he had exhibited, Owen wanted to know what was behind his eyes.

Who was Jamie?

The doors to the concert venue opened and the line cheered, shuffling forward so they could get their places.